


Didn't even close our eyes

by signalbeam



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Incest, Kanaya the nightlight, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-20
Updated: 2012-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-31 11:44:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/signalbeam/pseuds/signalbeam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roxy’s dreamself appears on the asteroid. Rose feels the need to shake things up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Didn't even close our eyes

They find her not-mother’s dreamself in the hall, forehead pressed against the wall and arms limp at the shoulders. 

“Great,” Karkat says, when he and Kanaya deliver her not-mother to the room where she and Dave have been sleeping. “More of your pink monkey faces to make things worse for everyone. Do you humans reproduce just by kissing? Someone help me, I think I’m growing a human on my arm.”

“It’s just a pimple,” Kanaya says, absently. Her fingers twitch, as though she's popping it in her mind. “It seems as though she emerged from a breach of the temporal-spatial barrier. We will have to wait for another such rift to open again in order to send her back.” She peers at Roxy for a moment. “She looks like you.”

“No, shit,” Dave says. “She’s our virgin mother. Your mom.” And their sister. Rose, for one, sees nothing wrong with her occasional dalliances with Dave. It’s perfectly healthy. She and Dave have both agreed, by means of not bringing it up, to not talk about it, and that already makes him an excellent partner. “So now we got an unconscious chick in her Dersite sleepy pajamas. Now what?” 

“Now I go back to my block, you lazy maggot-eared ass. How many of your lamebuldge problems do you expect us to solve? Fare thee fucking well, I say.” 

He stomps down the dark halls. Half-way down, he says, “Kanaya, get over here. I can’t see jackshit.”

Dave and Rose stare at the girl whose name, Rose supposes, must be Roxy, for that was her mother’s name, long before she became the Good Doctor Lalonde or more simply, Dr. Lalonde or even more simply, Mom. 

“We could hold her ransom,” Rose says. “Trap her here forever with us until she begins to exhibit signs of Stockholm’s Syndrome. Then we send her back to her previous home. We can watch her and laugh madly as she collapses from grief.” 

“Cool,” Dave says. “I’ll be Stock, you’ll be Holmes. Together we fight crime.” 

Her mother’s dreamself is now walking here-and-there around their room. Every now and then, she giggles or trips over her own feet. They watch as she falls into a pile of scalemates, and then rolls until she hits a table. 

“Jesus. What are we going to do with her?” Dave says. 

 

*

 

Not long after they move her mother into their room, her mother’s dreamself becomes the witness to multiple games of two-person poker. They've learned to leave the troll out of card games: Terezi ruins the cards and hasn’t played with them since Rose won all her scalemates in a bet, Gamzee cares not a whit for rules, and neither Rose nor Dave like playing a game while receiving loud, circumlocutory lectures on superior trollish recreations. Kanaya has an unfair advantage, by virtue of being the brightest thing in the room. Rose has lost an infuriating number of games to her over the last two years, ranging from Clue to Troll Slapjack, which is generally played with cleavers and fingers instead of cards. Lately she and Kanaya play at unproductive rounds of cross-cultural literary analysis. Talk, at least, doesn't end in anyone's maiming, though it also doesn't end in anything more than stoked intellectual curiosity. Poker—well, she can win at it. 

Two days later, she and Dave have moved onto putting cards in Roxy’s hand and playing with her as a third. Rose thinks it’s an awful idea. It turns their games, already portentous and silly, into a set up for a joke. A mother, a brother, and a sister play a game of cards; the mother is unconscious; the brother and sister kiss each other and occasionally jerk one another off. What is the punch line? 

By the time Rose wins the four ace suited off of him, he says, “This game is some whacked up shit, Rose. I can see your cheating from here.” 

“Yes, how dare I not fall for an unconscious girl’s bluff. Are you sure you haven’t mistaken your hearts for spades in the glum low light?” 

“Come on, still making shades jokes? You wound me, Rose. You’re thrusting a rusty spoon into an old hole.”

“Hmm.”

Her mother, propped against the wall, tilts with serenity, dignity, and poise. A deer in a suburban garden, maybe; a sudden smash of nature in a fenced-in yard. Rose wants to shake her up. Dave is looking at her mother’s dreamself, young and put together—alive, mortal, with years left to go. She feels sick. 

Dave leans over their mother’s hand. “She has a straight flush,” Dave announces. “Don’t get your back bent out of shape, Lalonde, curiosity bit my balls. Not like she’s gonna get mad at us for taking a peak.” 

“Only that you were staring down her shirt.”

“Why’d you have to go and say that? Now all I can think of is being smothered by the imaginary pillows of her boobs. Imaginary because she ain’t got none.” Please, merciful gods, don’t let him make a sad trombone noise. “Least some things get passed down generations,” he says, and strikes at an imaginary cymbal instead. 

She would’ve taken the trombone. “If I’m hearing you correctly, you don’t want anything to do with breasts.” 

“Balls and dongs for the rest of my life,” he says. “Mighty Frigglish and his dick beard. Dangling under my eyebrows are—” 

“This is like watching a dog who’s wandered in the middle of a highway trying to get to the other side.” 

“Just listen, this is hot stuff. My eyes are my balls. My beard—”

“I don’t think I actually have to say this, but your face has demonstrated an impressive aversion to anything more than a truly unfortunate goatee.” 

“—my chin is my dick.”

Her mother’s body tilts sideways. Dave scuffs at a stain on his knee, and then looks up at her. He strokes his chin, then, embarrassed, puts his hand on his knee and curls his fingers around it, tightly. Rose smiles at the faintest splatter of pink on his cheekbones, dotting his face like erstwhile freckles.

Her fingers cut against the bottom of the cards so hard that they crease. She imagines stroking his chin, and then imagines wrapping her hand around his cock and watching those pink spots multiplying and turning his whole face red. She imagines easing his glasses off his face, her underwear wet and heavy on his jerking thigh as her hand works him in a good rhythm. She is going to fuck him up. She’s going to shake everything up, shake it up and fuck them over. 

“Dave,” she says. 

“I knew it’d work on you,” he says. 

“Just shut up for a moment,” she says. 

“Bitches can’t handle my—”

She reaches over, and pins his wrist to the ground. That shuts him up fast enough. He has two pairs. She takes a look at her own hand, mostly for effect. She already knows what she’ll see, but she likes the way Dave’s thigh tenses, visibly, in his jeans, the way his fingers stiffen and don’t relax. 

“Three of a kind,” she says. 

“Jesus,” he breathes. Or something like it. She kisses him before he can finish. He gets one syllable out and the second vanishes into her mouth as she keeps one hand still on his wrist, and uses the other to curl around his chin and slide around to the back of his neck. His hand settles, tentatively, on her waist, and then as she fits herself into his lap, to her lumbar. He digs in. 

They work his belt off together and get his boxers and pants halfway down his knees before she grinds the heel of her palm against the back of his other hand. His penis stirs, half-erect, against his thigh. She lets go of his wrist, and he immediately reaches for her, groaning into her mouth a wheezy noise that might be her name. A sharp, spine-kicking spark jumps through her. She lets him wrap his fingers around her upper arm. She runs two fingers, from base to head, down his dick, and his hips jerk and his grasp becomes, for a fleeting, brilliant moment, painful. 

She’s not going to tell him how much she liked it, though. She imagines he’ll say something silly, like, _Better get my whip and bondage gear out, giddy up_. Oh, Dave—she doesn’t know what she’s going to do with him. She circles the head of his penis with the pads of her fingers and he squirms, hips rolling to her. The tip of his dick brushes against her palm. 

Going to, a part of her whispers, fuck him up. She is going to, she is going to, she will. She backs out of the kiss to get a good look at him. Then she kisses his jaw, the soft skin under his chin, and his neck, and he swells in her hand. She’s going to make him take those sunglasses off without her help, she’ll make him _want_ to take them off, she’s going to drive him mad. This is, of course, if she doesn’t fuck it up somehow, which may prove more difficult than she thought, because she only knows how to do this in the abstract. It’ll be a surprise for both of them. 

Dave has his back to his mother, so as Rose withdraws, she can see a bit of perfectly arranged hair, the Derse purple pajamas, and familiar skin appearing around the white and red borders of Dave’s shirt. 

_Going to shake you up,_ she thinks, and trembles. 

“Rose,” he says, as her fingers squeezes around his dick. She settles on her heels and makes her way lower. 

“Dave,” she says, and her eyes flick down to his penis as her thumb swipes up a vein. The hand that was on her arm is now on her shoulder. It becomes lighter the further she bends down, until it hovers above her skin as though he’s too afraid to touch her, even as his legs spread wider. She turns her cheek into his hand, and kisses his wrist, then, slowly, presses the flat of her tongue against the creases between the heel of his hand and the smoother expanse of inner arm. 

“Lie down,” she says, and he does. Her mother, still tilted against the wall, appears, pale hair and then the sweep of her eyelashes, the short curve of her nose, her pink lips, the hollow dip of her collarbone, her breasts, small and light—Rose removes her hand from Dave’s cock and presses it against the hinge of his leg. He brushes her hair from her face, fingers jumping too quick from cheek to ear. Most of her hair ends up on her cheek again. His glasses have slipped down his nose. One of the arms has fallen off his ear. He is impossible, impossible. Rose takes a deep breath, tucks her lips over her teeth, and wraps her tongue around his head and he squeezes his eyes shut. She lets her tongue spiral down and around, and then takes him into her mouth. 

“God, Rose,” he says, with rapt fascination pulsing through his voice. 

The absurd thing is, a part of her is cataloguing this experience away for future reference in her novel: the taste, the smell, the part of her that wants to go fast, to not give either of them time to adjust and just go, go. She widens her jaw, and goes down. 

There’s only so far she’s willing to descend, and the awareness of disappearing space makes the back of her neck stiff and throat close up. He’s straining, desperately, to not thrust, and she’s grateful. She lets go of his other hand, and uses it to wrap around the rest of his cock, pumping first at a jerk, then calming into an easy rhythm. She raises her head up, just a bit, and then comes back down, and when he makes a incoherent rattle of noise, she wants, so badly, a way to watch him like this. She imagines Dave, on display for her, writhing and moaning. Her mother—Roxy—Roxy sitting behind Dave, one hand on his cock and the other running a finger from his ass to balls. Roxy spreading her labial folds wide, taking Dave in. Dave’s tongue curled inside of Rose while Roxy watches, eyes wide and dilated, fingers working into her cunt and god, she wants to, she wants— 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” One hand scrambles in her hair, drawing her in, and the other is on her shoulder, trying to push her away. His hips thrust shallowly—her tongue slips, sliding around his cock, and she releases him from her mouth. “No, Christ, Rose, don’t,” he pleads, and his shades slip even further off his face. A roaring hunger opens up in her stomach; she squeezes her thighs together. Her spine bends, and then curves to press against his hip. 

“Don’t?” she says, fingers running slick over her own saliva and his precome. He shuts his eyes. She grabs him by the chin, and they fly open again. He squirms under her gaze, and she wants to tell him, she wants to tell him to not look behind him, oh, no. And he comes, a white trail shooting onto his stomach. They’re both breathing hard. Dave’s face is pink, as though he’s been standing out in the sun for too long. Rose releases his penis, and wipes the spit from her mouth with the back of her hand. She doesn’t miss his lips parting, or the bob of his Adam’s apple.

She strips off her panties and skirts while she waits for him to come down. She’s not nearly as patient as she wants to be. Once he puts his hand on her knee, she directs it, more firmly, up, then in. Her pulse has jumped from her gut to Dave’s fingers to Dave, nothing but the calluses on his fingers, the palm of his hand grinding up against her clit. Roxy, limp against the wall, seems to smile. She smothers her whimper in his shoulder when she comes, and he hugs her to him, fingers easing out of her—she clenches on nothing, and sighs.

When she looks up, her mother has disappeared.

 

*

 

Rose finds Kanaya in a bathroom with Terezi’s blood in her mouth. Kanaya’s carefully swirling her tongue around her mouth as she thinks. 

“I did notice,” she says, “a minor rip of space while I was with Terezi. But you must have noticed that yourself.”

“I was a little busy.” More or less.

“Yes, busy,” Kanaya says, and her tongue corkscrews against her cheek and flashes, for a moment, black against her dark lips. “The rip was smaller than the initial breach, but I suspect she has departed. Dreamselves are naturally drawn to their towers. Unless they are idiotic sleepwalkers who put themselves in danger by tripping into people and impaling themselves on signs.” That sounds oddly personal, she thinks. Kanaya composes herself. “I’ll let you know if there are any further disturbances in the strained and sadly tattered dress of space-time. If you’d like.”

“I’d like that,” Rose says. 

Kanaya’s tongue makes another sweep across her teeth. She smiles. 

 

*

 

Rose returns to her room. Dave isn’t in at the moment. Her mother’s body is, maybe, back on Derse, or else somewhere else. She pictures it: her mother floating through the halls of this dark corridor, head listing to the side. She sees her mother drifting through Terezi’s respiteblock, her mother in one of the labs of the asteroid, Roxy Lalonde in a white lab coat and sipping tea, surrounded by test tubes and wizard statues. Roxy, tightening a bloodstained scarf around Rose’s neck with one hand, the other hand dipping below Rose’s skirt. 

Mother, sister—they’re all technicalities, she thinks. She falls into a pile of scalemates, and rubs at her neck roughly with the palm of her hand. She imagines silk. Her other hand tugs her underwear down her hips, a whining anxiety in the back of her mind making her fingers find her clit quick. She dips in, wets her fingers, and swipes up. She’s already come once, so the orgasm is a fast one. She comes, breathless and tight. She lets herself relax for a moment. Just a moment, because she can feel her Seer powers at work in a distant corner of her consciousness. When she opens her eyes, she isn’t at all surprised, to see Roxy seated on the table, legs crossed and eyes still closed. Sweat films on the back of her neck and underneath her breasts. 

Roxy isn’t going to wake up yet, she knows. Rose curls her fingers against her knee, and then lets it travel further up. Her eyes are about to shut again when Roxy falls from the table and next to the scalemates. Her hand falls onto Rose’s leg. Rose stares at the fleshy part of Roxy’s thumb as it rotates and rests, palm down, on her thigh. 

Her eyes are half-open, dark and blank with sleep. Her fingers curl into Rose’s thigh and travel, slowly, to her knee and then slide onto a white, plush snout. 

When Dave comes back to the room an hour later, Roxy has vanished, and Rose is reading about how some scientists speculate that inside a black hole space falls to the event horizon faster than light, how there is a spot on the inner horizon that is bright, bright, bright.


End file.
